Just Another Day
by Utopia Today
Summary: Twenty stories for twenty newsboys. Wednesday, October 4th, 1899. It's going to be just another day in Manhattan.
1. Skittery

Midnight, Wednesday, October 4th, 1899.

Duane Street is silent. Hours from now people will walk the cobblestone, talking, laughing, going about their daily business, doing whatever it is they do in that particular area of Manhattan. A little Irish girl will fall and scrape her knee; she'll cry, then pick herself up and run home to her mother. An unmarried couple will walk hand-in-hand; the young man smiles, the young woman bushes. An old man will drop four quarters, each coin rolling out of his reach; he will search for each one of them.

But for now, the street is quiet. Many who live on Duane Street have been asleep for some time now, and those who are still awake are keeping quiet.

This peace continues until four minutes past midnight, at which time a tall young man breaks the picturesque stillness of the quiet street, walking out the door of the Newsboys Lodging House. A cigarette is behind his ear, partially hidden in locks of brown hair. Michael Pulaski, more affectionately known to the other boys as Skittery, has a hard time sleeping these days. It's not that he isn't tired. On the contrary, his body is begging for rest, doing the best it can to function without time for Skittery to close his eyes and let things go for a few hours.

Every night this week has been the same—at around 10:00 PM Skittery lies down in bed and closes his eyes. For the next two hours, he turns over and over again, trying to find a comfortable position and ignore the dull ache in his legs from all the day's walking. Near midnight, he gives up, climbs down from the bunk, grabs a cigarette from his bag of effects under the bed, and walks to Racetrack's bedside table to steal a match.

Tonight is no different as far as the process goes. However, the moment the flame of the match ignites, Duane Street is bombarded by a sudden downpour of rain. Skittery utters a mumbled curse and covers the area around the end of the cigarette that's dangling from his lips with his free hand. He manages to get a light, and lets the match drop, still burning, onto the stone below him.

What's left of the flame is doused by a drop of rain.

Skittery inhales, tastes the smoke, exhales. He grabs his upper arm with his unoccupied hand, clutching the fabric of his shirt in an attempt to stay warm. And he begins to think.

There's a lot to think about these days. Skittery leads, for the most part, an easy life. Wake up, sell a few papers, spend the afternoon doing whatever it is you feel like doing, sell a few more papers, have a carefree night, sleep, then do it all over again. Being a newsie in New York had its difficult moments, but for the most part it was the simplest, most relaxed job a boy could ask for.

But Skittery isn't a boy anymore. At seventeen, he can't help but think about his future. And with thoughts of the future comes that worried fear, the one you can feel in your stomach. It itches, and it bothers Skittery so much that it creates the new worry that he'll never be able to get rid of that feeling.

Water continues to pour down on the lone young man standing on Duane Street. He can feel it hit his scalp, the back of his neck, his hands and arms. The thick drops quickly soak his hair and the thin fabric of his shirt around his shoulders. Skittery is surprised to find that he doesn't mind being wet at all. In fact, he thoroughly enjoys it.

Without hesitation or second thoughts, he lets the cigarette drop to the ground and runs out into the middle of the street. The buildings around him illuminate brilliantly for a fleeting moment, followed quickly by the reverberation of thunder as the rain falls down onto Manhattan.

Skittery lets his arms stretch out. His head falls back, and he closes his eyes and opens his mouth. Soon enough his feet move and he's spinning in circles and laughing without even realizing it.

And then he begins to slow down. The rain changes from many thick, heavy drops to just a few, and then none at all, and Skittery finds himself standing in the middle of the street. He is soaking wet. Water drips from his hair and down into his eyes.

No matter. He's too tired to think about the sting of the water in his eyes at the moment. Skittery walks back into the Newsboys Lodging House, content finally ready to sleep.

Ten minutes after midnight, Wednesday, October 4th, 1899.

It's going to be just another day in Manhattan.

* * *

I know I'm probably not in any position to be starting another story, but this has been eating at me for longer than The Newsboy has, so I've pulled that down because I don't think I'm ready to do that justice at the moment (haha, justice, superheroes…ahhh yes). This is going to be a series of mini-stories, each chapter focusing on one of the twenty newsies, just things that would happen to them on an ordinary day. It should be pretty interesting, I hope! Especially because I'm having fun experimenting with the present tense...so we'll see how that goes. Let me know what you think! 


	2. Pie Eater

6:53AM, Wednesday, October 4th, 1899.

"Who the hell left the window open last night?"

The muffled voice (belonging to Jack Kelly) receives no real reply, but rather a few grumbles from some of the boys. All are still in bed, fiercely gripping on to their blankets, trying to escape the freezing wind that is blowing through the open window on one end of the bunkroom.

"Well somebody's gotta close it, huh?" Jack mumbles out to everyone. Again he receives no reply. "I ain't gettin' outta bed until that thing's closed. It's freezing in here." Nobody moves in their beds, hoping not to be the one who has to leave the warmth and step onto the frigid floorboards. He sighs and pulls his blanket over his head. "Well I ain't gonna do it."

"Me neither," replies more than half of the tired boys.

"Make Pie do it, he's the one who opened it last time," Bumlets suggests from under his blanket.

Pie Eater tenses. "Yeah, but I didn't do it this time!" he protests.

"Just do it, Pie."

"No!"

A boy throws a pillow which hits Pie Eater on the legs and falls off the bed and onto the floor. "Do it!"

"Fine!" Angrily he throws his blanket to the edge of the bed and jumps off the top bunk. Snoddy, who sleeps below him, is startled—he didn't expect such a loud noise so close to him.

"Hey shut up, huh Pie?" he growls as he pulls his pillow over his head.

"You shut up." Pie Eater is not in the mood. He walks over to the end of the room where the open window is waiting for him. The wind has stopped for a few moments which Pie Eater is thankful for. It isn't as cold.

This month is going to be just a preview for the Hell that's to come in the winter, he can tell already. Winter is never fun, especially if you don't have good shoes, or a coat. You can live without mittens and maybe even without a hat, but if you don't have shoes or a coat, you won't last through December.

Thankfully, Pie Eater possesses all of those things.

Just as he reaches the window, a strong gust of wind hits him. Pie Eater inhales sharply as the cold blows his hair and caresses his neck, sending chills throughout his body. He feels his muscles tense. He stands there in front of the open window, unable to move, unable to think. It's almost therapeutic. Almost.

"Just close the damned thing!" Bumlets again.

Pie Eaters snaps out of it and quickly slams the window shut.

He trudges back to his bed and climbs up, pulling the blanket over his legs and then over his shoulders. He then closes his eyes, fully intending to go back to sleep. After just a few blissful minutes of rest, however, he's shoved awake by Snoddy. "Time to get up and make a living, Pie," he says cheerfully. Pie Eater sighs heavily, then smacks at Snoddy, who darts out of the way just in time and laughs. "Get up, you lazy ass!"

"You're a lazy ass," Pie mumbles as he buries his head back in his pillow. He's going back to sleep.

* * *

Thanks to Socks, Adri, and GeekOnDisplay for your reviews. You guys are definately the coolest!

Review! DOOOO IIIIIIIT!


	3. Spot

8:00AM, Wednesday, October 4th, 1899.

It has been nearly an hour since Spot Conlon noticed the little boy was following him. How long he had been there before he noticed him, Spot can't say. But he just can't shake the kid. He's been trying different tactics for the past hour.

First he told him right out to scram, and that didn't work. After that he ducked through as many side-streets as he possibly could until he himself was getting quite lost (on his own turf, no less), which just made him angry. And after that he had a friend physically hold the child back while Spot walked away, but the little boy found him once again.

And so here he is, in the middle of the street, staring down this little boy.

The boy can't be more than six years old. He is a tiny little thing—short and skinny, quite tan, with a baby face and a mop of white-blonde hair covering his little head. He has no coat. He's actually quite adorable, but Spot doesn't give that thought at all.

"Why are you following me, kid?" Spot asks him. Tucked under his right arm are seventy-five New York Suns. Spot hasn't sold a single paper this morning; he's been too busy trying to get rid of this kid.

The child doesn't answer, but just stares up at Spot, who sighs. "You lost or something?" he asks, not really expecting any answer. "'Cause I ain't in no mood to help you find whoever it is you're lost from. Got that?"

The boy makes no reply, not even a nod or acknowledgement that he's being spoken to. So Spot continues, "You can follow me all you want but I ain't gonna give you no money or nothing, all right? Just…just stay out of my way is all. Got it?"

Spot turns on his heel and holds the newspapers on his shoulder. He walks a few steps and is suddenly startled to feel small, soft little fingers gripping his left hand. He looks down—sure enough, the boy is there, and now holding onto his hand as if for dear life. He doesn't look up at Spot, but forward, as if it's completely normal that he's holding the young man's hand. No big deal.

Spot has the instinct to pull his hand from the child's and shove him away, but something tells him to deal with it and let the kid hold his hand. So he does.

This continues for nearly a half an hour. The air is cold; not many people are willing to stop to buy a newspaper. It's just too windy, too cold. For the first time, Spot notices that the little boy isn't wearing a coat—he realizes this when he finds him squeezing Spot's hand, shivering.

Spot's thoughts conflict.

If you let the kid have your coat he won't be so cold and maybe he'll let go. But then maybe he'll run off with your coat. But he hasn't run off yet. But then you'll be cold. But he's just a kid, for Christ's sake.

"Damn it, kid," Spot grumbles as he lets go of the boy's hand and begins to unbutton his coat. He pulls his arms out of the sleeves and holds the coat open towards the boy. "Put the God damn thing on."

The child slides his arms through the sleeves, then turns around to Spot, who buttons the coat for him. The coat is entirely too big on him and the bottom will drag on the ground. Spot pulls his scarf off as well and ties it around the boy's neck. He sighs and stands up. "I hope you're happy now."

He is.

"Too cold for October, kid, I'm telling you," Spot says. He knows he won't get any reply, but it's good to just talk. "Not even into the month yet and everybody's wearing all their winter clothes. Just too damn cold."

The boy stares up at him.

Spot looks back down at the boy for a moment, then holds out his hand for him to take, and he does. For a moment, Spot sees a smile on the child's face, but it's soon gone.

For the next fifteen minutes, Spot peddles his papers with the boy in tow. He's actually quite useful, holding the newspapers while Spot attempts to sell them. He's not very successful.

"Not too good a spot, eh kid?" Spot says to the boy, who of course doesn't reply. "Let's say we move somewhere else, huh?"

The older and the younger link hands and begin to walk towards a more populated area. As they walk, the streets become more crowded, so much so that the boy is gripping tightly onto Spot's hand just to stay connected.

There are too many people in the street. Just as Spot turns around to make sure the kid is okay, a man bumps into the child, separating the boys' hands.

Spot pushes his way through the crowd to get back to the boy, but there are too many people—he can't make his way through the crowd.

He's yelling for the boy without even thinking about it, screaming at the top of his lungs, but he can't find him. He's lost in the sheer amount of bodies that cover the street. Spot stands in the middle of the crowd, breathing heavily, clouds leaving his mouth in the cold air. The boy is gone.

Spot suddenly feels quite cold.

* * *

Two updates in one day? WHAAAAT? It's unheard of for me, I know! Thanks to Trap Shut and Socks for your reviews. I LOVE REVIEWS. They really keep me going. Honestly. So review! 

Oh. This chapter was inspired by a story that a friend of mine started years ago (must be honestly five years...that's weird that I've been a fan for five years. I mean I'm sure others have loved Newsies way longer, but I donno...just weird is all), and never finished. It was about (obviously) a little boy who never speaks following Spot. She only got a chapter in, so I sort of stuck an end on it. Sad, really. But anyways.

REVIEW! NOW! AHAHAHAHAanyways review.


	4. Racetrack

9:00AM, Wednesday, October 4th, 1899

It has been four days since Anthony Higgins has had a decent meal.

He has been eating, yes, but mostly just a bit of bread and some coffee in the morning, and whatever his friends won't eat from lunch and supper—and that isn't much. It's not that he hasn't been selling any papers; he's making a steady income. But the fact of the matter is that Racetrack has a very good feeling this week, and when Racetrack has a very good feeling, Racetrack makes lots money off of the races.

_I can eat next week,_ he says to himself, and ignores the aching feeling that's been tearing at his stomach.

And because of that aching feeling, Racetrack has found it quite difficult to get a good night's rest. You should see the guy—he's pale, thinner, big dark circles under his eyes and his hair all disheveled. He looks like a ghost.

_I can sleep next week._

This morning is like every other morning. Racetrack prefers to sell by himself. It's not that he doesn't enjoy the company, but rather he feels like he sells better when he's not burdened by the urge to yell across the street and have a chat with Blink or Mush (which tends to happen when the three of the are together…it's bad for business.)

The fact that Racetrack has been starving himself so he can place a good bet at the tracks begs the question: does Anthony Higgins have a gambling problem?

The answer is yes, yes he does.

But he's happy. Racetrack can say that of himself, at least. He is happy. So what if he's flat broke most days? So what if he hasn't eaten today or yesterday, and the last food he had was a hunk of bread two mornings ago? So what if he's beginning to feel quite dizzy and can't really see anything anymore?

Wait.

That's not right.

What?

Racetrack hits the ground before he realizes what's going on, and he blacks out. His fall causes a few heads to turn, but that's the extent of the concern for a kid who's just passed out in the middle of the sidewalk.

His head hit the ground pretty hard, so Racetrack will not wake up for an hour or so. He's received a cut that's bleeding quite badly and will probably need to be cleaned and bandaged.

Three minutes pass—Racetrack is still unconscious.

Five more minutes pass.

Aaron Meyers is on his way to finding a better selling spot, considering that where he was before had a newsie on every corner—bad for business. He isn't really watching where he's going, and nearly trips on a sleeping bum in the middle of the sidewalk.

Mush feels sorry for the bum for only a moment before he realizes that it's no sleeping bum, it's his best friend.

The mix-up is understandable….it can sometimes be difficult to tell the difference between Racetrack and a sleeping bum.

* * *

I should really set some sort of schedule for my writing, like Stress does (who is quite awesome, by the way...if you're not reading her stories, you should be!) Buuuut I'm busy, and when I'm not busy, I'm lazy...it's a difficult combination. Alas! But anyways, thank you so much to Trap, Pegasus M, Socks, and GN for your reviews. I'm not lying when I say reviews are the fuel for my writing...I can admit that. I can also admit that I too have a review problem...I love the story but I seldom review. BUT WE CAN CHANGE, PEOPLE! We can better ourselves! So click that button down there and send me some love! Just let me know you're reading, if anything. 

And happy belated Thanksgiving and all of that!

OH MY GOD: ERROR THAT STRESS POINTED OUT. And I can't believe nobody else noticed...The entire point of this story is that it is set on one single day...and I totally switched that day in this chapter because October 3rd just happens to be my favorite day in the entire world (and also Stress' birthday, buuuuut that's beside the point.) I am so ashamed...oh well. You guys rock enough for me to be really stupid now and then so it's okay!

And another edit. "4rd"?...thats not even a thing. Way to go. I am so smrt.


	5. Snoddy

10:15AM, Wednesday, October 4th, 1899

Snoddy lives a normal, boring, excruciatingly plain life.

Ever since he was a child, Jackson Smith knew his time on earth would not be spectacular by any means. He never won any games, met interesting people, traveled to exciting places. Snoddy has just recently come to terms with his lackluster existence; the way he sees it, boring people need to be around so that important and lucky people can be the shining individuals they are.

He has friends, yes—Pie Eater and Dutchy and Bumlets and Specs, mostly, and other friendly acquaintances as well. They keep him company enough, and he's grateful for that. But Snoddy knows he's nothing special—just another newsboy in a big city full of people who look and dress just like him.

Today is a day no different from any other. Sixty New York Worlds folded over a rope hung around him like a sash, sore feet, a cold nose and fingertips and ears, and if he plays his cards right, sixty cents at the end of the day. Snoddy stands at his usual selling corner (which is boringly familiar).

But today is just too cold—he has not sold as many papers as he would have liked by now. It's after ten, and if nobody's bought his papers yet, they probably aren't going to at all.

Snoddy is bored. He crosses the street to where Bumlets is standing. "Bad luck this morning?" Snoddy asks his friend.

Bumlets hits the stack of papers he holds comfortably on his shoulder with his free hand. "Thirty-four papes, Snod," he says. "Thirty-four out of sixty."

Snoddy doesn't bother to tell his friend he's sold even less. "We overbought, didn't we?"

"Gimme another half hour, then we can go," Bumlets says with a bit of a laugh. "I'm freezing but I bet you I can sell another fifteen."

With a nod, Snoddy begins to retreat back to his side of the street. If only it wasn't so damn cold. If only he could sell a few more papers. If only his life wasn't so miserably boring.

As he makes his way back over, Snoddy has the sudden urge to back to Bumlets to see if they can team up to try and sell a few more and split the cost. After all, his friend would agree that splitting and both having less is better than one man having more. He turns quickly on his heal and, without realizing it at first, bumps into a girl carrying a basket of groceries.

The basket falls to the ground. Fruit spills onto the street, a loaf of bread is kicked a few feet away, and the eggs are broken. Both Snoddy and the girl stand in silence for a moment. She is surprised to have been hit so hard so suddenly. He's just plain speechless.

The girl is quite pretty. Tight auburn curls peek out from under her hat; her face looks soft and inviting. And her eyes, those eyes—dark, yet bright all at the same time. Snoddy can't look away.

But she breaks his gaze and crouches down to the ground to pick up her groceries. Snoddy follows suit. "I'm so sorry," he stutters quickly as he picks up an apple. "I didn't see you there…my mistake…really careless, I didn't mean to hit you." He eyes the broken eggs. "I'll buy you some new eggs if you want."  
She speaks. "No, really, it's fine."

"No it isn't," Snoddy replies after a moment. Her voice was enough to render him speechless again. "Really, I want to pay you back for the stuff I ruined." After putting the loaf of bread back into the basket, he reaches into his pocket for the day's earnings. "I have some money—"

"It's no trouble," she lies, putting her hand on his wrist, his hand still in his pocket.

Her touch is enough to stop Snoddy completely. The girl manages a slight smile. "Just…watch where you're going next time, hmm?"

She stands and picks up the basket of ruined food and walks away quickly. Snoddy makes out a quiet "Sure thing" before she's out of his sight entirely.

Finally he stands, and slowly walks back to his corner, never keeping his eyes off of where she walked away to.

Snoddy feels a flutter in the pit of his stomach. His heart races. He can't feel his fingertips. Whether he's just cold or it's something else, one thing's for sure--even people with excruciatingly boring lives can fall in love.

* * *

Much thanks to Socks, Pegasus, and Stress for your reviews. They mean a lot, really they do…and they're pretty much the reason I got another chapter in so quickly. What can I say? I love reviews! (REVIEW OH MY GOD DO IT)

And was it just me or did Snoddy seem very, oh I don't know...Marius-y here? Maybe it's because I'm seeing Miz in NY in January and I am SO EXCITED I can't get it off my mind...but if it came off too much like that...that's why!

And that's really all I have to say. Take care!


	6. Itey

11:00am, Wednesday, October 4th, 1899.

"You've got to be kidding me."

Just after 11am that day, something cold and very small hits Itey's cheek. As he feels it touch him, he looks up towards the sky to see thousands more of those tiny snowflakes falling towards the city.

"But it's only October!" he complains aloud to nobody in particular. Snitch is around there somewhere, and Jake is close by as well.

Dominic Cappelli dreams of warm weather, of the place his parents were born. He sees the Mediterranean Sea, high hilly cliffs and a dark rocky beach; feels the sun on his nose, his shoulders, the back of his legs. He smells the salt. Vast oceans, sunny skies.

But he's stuck on the upper east side of Manhattan, freezing his fingers and ears and toes off, trying to make a decent haul off of today's news without getting himself killed.

Itey is about to yell out another headline when Snitch comes up behind him and wraps an arm around the unsuspecting boy's shoulders. "You know what's the great thing about October fourth?" he asks Itey, who allows the arm to stay.

"No, what?" he replies. Jake has appeared out of the blue and leans against the side of a building, his newspapers tucked under his arm. He blows air into cupped hands and furiously rubs them together in a pathetic attempt to keep them warm.

Snitch continues, "It's a perfect, ordinary day. Nothin' special about it. No reason to celebrate." Jake snickers behind them, and Itey laughs. He pulls Snitch's arm off of his shoulders and smacks him upside the head.

"You're really full of it, you know that?" Itey tells him.

Today is Itey's birthday. He's seventeen years old.

"Yeah, yeah, I know. So, you know, happy October fourth to you and yours, and all that."

Itey laughs, but he's mostly faking it. He hasn't really enjoyed his birthday since he was very small. His mother would bake a cake, his father would sing, and he didn't have to do anything but eat sweets, receive gifts, and be special the whole day.

In the past few years, birthdays have just meant getting older. Getting older means thinking about the future, and the future is never a good thing when you're young and free.

He tries to push the worries from his mind, to think instead of the rocky beach in Levanto his father used to tell him about, the cliffs and the sun, fishing boats and fruit in the afternoon. Itey would give anything to be there, to work a vineyard instead of peddle papers.

Teo Cappelli left Levanto to follow a pretty girl named Gabriella, whom he eventually married in New York and together they had four sons. Itey had never understood his father's desire to leave such a beautiful place (though he's thankful for it every day—it's good to be alive). But his father is dead, and his mother is dead. And his brothers? Itey doesn't know where his brothers are.

The wind whips through the street once again, smashing snowflakes against Itey's face. He wipes them away with fingerless wool gloves, but it doesn't really help. Now his face is wet, cold, and itchy.

"We gonna stand here all day, Itey?" Snitch asks impatiently. The kid doesn't like to be in the same spot for too long, and he definitely doesn't like to stand around in the cold. He begins to walk away from Itey, down the street. "Because I don't know about you, but I could go for a hot cup of coffee right about now."

"That's the best idea you've had all week," Jake agrees and follows Snitch.

Itey lingers. Snow in October is unpleasant, but not as unpleasant as the thought of growing older, of responsibility and money, of a wife and mouths to feed. Now he's gotten to thinking again, and when Itey thinks, Itey doesn't stop.

"You coming?" Jake asks.

Snitch is already fifty feet away. "Hey! Eye-talian!" This snaps Itey out of his thoughts. Nobody ever uses his full nickname anymore…it sort of defeats the purpose. "You gonna stand around all day or are you gonna pick up your feet and let me buy you some coffee!"

"You're paying?" Itey asks as he puts the remainder of his newspapers on his shoulder and takes a few running steps towards Snitch.

"Of course I'm paying! It's October fourth, my favorite ordinary day!"

It continues to snow. Itey can hardly feel his toes, but it's no matter. He's too busy thinking about the rocky beach, the Mediterranean sea, fruit and wine, the sun on his nose and shoulders and the back of his legs.

He'll go to Levanto someday. It's just going to have to wait a while.

* * *

I love this one, mostly because Levanto is a beautiful place (and so is Italy in general) and I would love to go back someday. And because I love Itey. Haha, he's so cute.

Very much thanks to Trap, Bookey, GeekOnDisplay, and Harmony Remarc for your reviews! Sorry this took so long to write...I was stuck, but then sometimes you just get little bursts of inspiration, like when you're all alone in the basement of the library, supposed to be doing homework. Whoops.

Drop me a line and let me know what you think! More soon--thanks for reading!


	7. Specs

11:45AM, Wednesday, October 4th, 1899.

For the past few weeks, Nicholas Love has been coughing up blood.

It hasn't been very obvious, he thinks. It's almost tradition for somebody to catch something as it gets colder, and with weather like this, almost nothing seems out of the ordinary. Nobody's brought it up in conversation, so why should he?

At first it was just small flecks of red when he coughed. He had barely even noticed it. It really wasn't until he nearly passed out from lack of air after coughing so much and realized his gloves were stained deep red in the palms that he knew something was really wrong.

For now, he'll let it sit. Doctors cost money he doesn't have, after all. And guys have been more sick than this and were just fine, so there's no need to worry.

Right?

Dutchy takes a seat opposite Specs in the crowded dining area of Tibby's. He pulls his mittens off and sets them down on the table. "It's snowing, Specs, can you believe that?" He runs a hand through his hair, which is now wet from the melted snowflakes, and pulls off his glasses to wipe the small droplets of water from the lenses with his shirt. "Snowing. Just rained last night too, I hear. Can you believe _that_? Heard it from Skittery, though I donno if it's safe to trust that lousy bum, cheated me in cards just the other night. I swear to God I'm never playing that sorry louse ever again." Dutchy suddenly notices Specs hasn't said anything. "Hey. You all right?"

No. "Yeah, just fine," Specs replies, inhaling deeply, surprised at being addressed directly. He has been interrupted staring into his cold cup of coffee. Specs has been sitting in this spot for nearly an hour and a half, though Dutchy doesn't know it.

"Oh. You seem off."

"Nah, just tired." He livens up, for his friend's sake, with the most generic of comments. "Sellin's terrible today, huh?"

"Tell me about it. Only pushed seven or eight, nearly gave up. I was hoping you'd had better luck."

Dutchy has pulled out a cigarette and a box of matches by now. He puts the cigarette between his lips, strikes the match, then inhales and shakes the small flame out with the flick of his wrist.

"Nah, no luck." In fact, Specs hasn't sold a single paper today. He didn't even bother buying them in the first place.

The cigatette smoke starts to get to Specs. He tries to hold it in, but despite his best efforts, he begins to cough.

He panics. His chest feels as though it's on fire. He stands and grabs hold of the table for balange. "Hey, you ok?" Specs tries to reply, but can't. The palm of his hand feels wet and he's still coughing. Dutchy snuffs the cigarette and stands. "Specs."

But Specs holds out his other hand as if to stop him from coming near. He gasps in a breath, and heaves out a final, drawn out cough.

Specs doesn't move for a few moments. Afer some slow, deep breaths, he wipes his wet palm on the side of his pants and sits back down.

"Sorry," he rasps finally. "What were you saying?"

Dutchy only stares back at him, and Specs prays he won't ask questions. There's no use in him getting worried. He's gonna be just fine.

And if he ain't, there's really nothing Dutchy can do about it anyway.

* * *

Why hello again! Sorry for leaving you all without a word. Things got stressful, computer crashed, lost motivation to re-write things, etc. You know the drill!

Anyway I'm back for a bit, so expect some more updates to this and (maybe if we're lucky) Amusing Lies. Hurrah!


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